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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125744">milk and sugar kisses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies'>bluejayblueskies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Holding Hands, M/M, just..... so soft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:40:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Martin does feel bad as he knocks softly on the door to announce his presence before pushing through with the steaming cup of tea in his hand. But they’d booked the train tickets to Scotland ages ago, electing for the earlier departure time. Which they had <b>all</b> agreed upon.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>So Martin sets the mug on the side table and says in a voice loud enough to cut through any lingering vestiges of sleep, “It’s a beautiful morning, Jon.”</i>
</p><p>----</p><p>Jon, Martin, and Tim share a gentle morning together. Not everyone, however, is a morning person.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>milk and sugar kisses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The week 3 work for the Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge (part 2)! Information on the challenge can be found <a href="https://tmahiatusflashfanwork.tumblr.com/">here</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It really is a beautiful morning, Martin thinks as he clicks the kettle off just shy of boiling and pours the water into three mugs with bags of Yorkshire tea already nestled inside. The steam curls over the rims of the mugs, kissing the side of Martin’s hand as he sets the kettle back on its base and sets to fixing the tea with milk and sugar in a way that’s mindless, long-past second nature by now.</p><p> </p><p>The first, a garishly painted mug of coiling flowers and cartoon birds: a splash of milk, two sugars. The next, a ceramic thing in the shape of a sheep, wool fluffy and black eyes shining through the glaze: enough milk to turn the water a lovely shade of caramel, no sugar. The last, handmade and purchased from a local shop, soft yellow punctuated by little black pawprints: served black and too strong, in a way that makes Martin’s nose wrinkle even as the corner of his mouth turns up in fondness.</p><p> </p><p>The owner of that last mug is curled under the covers still, shifting only slightly at the onset of the incessant droning of the alarm that had gone off five minutes ago, and then five minutes before that, and five minutes before that, and five before still. Through the crack in the door, Martin sees a hand, thin and clumsy in its movements, escape from the duvet, searching blindly for the phone.</p><p> </p><p>Then it’s quiet again, and the sheets rustle once more before settling.</p><p> </p><p>Martin does feel bad as he knocks softly on the door to announce his presence before pushing through with the steaming cup of tea in his hand. Jon’s been pushing himself to earlier and earlier departure times since his promotion, bringing stacks of yellowing paper back to the flat when he returns in the dusk of twilight—which Martin is almost certain is <em>not</em> proper archival procedure—despite his inclination to wake at a time that’s closer to double digits. Saturdays usually involve significantly <em>less</em> grumbling at the break of dawn and significantly <em>more</em> bleary-eyed mid-morning cuddles. But they’d booked the train tickets to Scotland ages ago, electing for the earlier departure time. Which they had <em>all</em> agreed upon.</p><p> </p><p>So Martin sets the mug on the side table and says in a voice loud enough to cut through any lingering vestiges of sleep, “It’s a beautiful morning, Jon.”</p><p> </p><p>The only response Martin gets is a low groan, muddied by sleep. It wants to tug a smile to Martin’s lips, and he has half a mind to let it, but they really <em>are</em> going to be late. So he continues, “Really, it is. You know, Tim said it was the <em>perfect</em> morning for a run.”</p><p> </p><p>Another groan, this one less born of sleep and more of soft exasperation. “I’m sure he did,” Jon says groggily, his voice muffled by the duvet that’s still pulled tightly over his head. A single salt-and-pepper curl pokes out, painted starkly against the pillow.</p><p> </p><p>A bit more pointedly, Martin says, “I made tea.”</p><p> </p><p>A final groan, one that fades away into a sigh, and Jon’s face emerges from the rumpled bedclothes as he wriggles into a facsimile of a sitting position, upright just enough to grasp at the mug and clutch it between his hands without spilling any of the liquid inside. It’s still just shy of drinking temperature, so Jon just lets the warmth from the ceramic seep into the palms of his hands, chasing away the lingering tendrils of sleep that wish so deeply to carry him away once again. “I detest mornings,” he says flatly, and the disgruntled wrinkle of his nose combined with the clumped and messy state of his hair chases a warm chuckle free from Martin.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” Martin says at Jon’s scowl. He hesitates, only a moment, before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to Jon’s forehead. When he pulls back, the lines of displeasure are smoothed into something softer, and Jon takes a careful sip of his tea, hissing as it hits the roof of his mouth. “It is, though, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s forehead creases again, this time in confusion. “I’m sorry?”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s smile is warm and openly loving. “A beautiful morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s eyes skip past Martin and land on the window, on the pale sunlight filtering through and highlighting the dust motes that sit suspended in the air. Just beyond, he can see the blue of the sky peaking around the hard lines of the London buildings, muted still by the softness of the morning sun. “Yes,” Jon says, holding his mug a little tighter. “I suppose it is.”</p><p> </p><p>By the time Tim returns, kicking his running shoes off by the door and following the smell of eggs and toast to the kitchen, Jon’s sat at the kitchen table, a dark green jumper that Tim’s pretty sure is actually <em>his</em> bunched up around hands that still hold the yellow mug close, though the warmth no longer radiates quite as strongly from it. Jon’s hair is tucked back in a loose braid still shiny-wet from the shower, and honestly, Tim thinks he looks very kissable right now.</p><p> </p><p>So he does, stopping just shy of the table and pressing a quick kiss to the curve of Jon’s cheek. Then, when Jon turns toward him, a high flush creeping up his face, Tim sets another on Jon’s lips, lingering just long enough to taste the remnants of black tea, too bitter and so very <em>Jon.</em></p><p> </p><p>“Morning,” Tim says, pulling back just far enough that the word can escape him but not so far that he can’t feel Jon’s huff of breath, half-fondness and half-exasperation, dance across his lips. Then, he straightens, crosses the kitchen to where Martin’s stood at the stove, pushing eggs around on the skillet with a battered silicon spatula, and wraps his arms around Martin’s stomach from behind. He nestles his chin on Martin’s shoulder, feeling the ghost of stubble against his cheek, and squeezes his arms gently. “Mm, smells good. I’m <em>starving.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Martin chuckles, and Tim loves the feeling of it beneath his hands. “And <em>you</em> smell like you need a shower.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim gasps dramatically and clings a bit tighter to Martin. “Martin! Oh, you wound me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure,” Martin says dryly, but Tim can feel the corners of his mouth tugging up in a smile, and he takes the opportunity to place a soft smattering of kisses along Martin’s jawline until Martin’s laughing and saying, “Stop, stop, Tim, I’m going to ruin the eggs if you keep—hey, that <em>tickles!</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Goodness, is this the morning routine I’m always hearing so much about?” Jon says from behind them. “Burnt eggs and sweaty hugs?”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re not <em>burnt</em>—oh, god dammit.”</p><p> </p><p>Martin hastily turns the burner off and slides the skillet to a cool one, still cursing under his breath as he squirms under Tim’s unrelenting embrace until he gets his hands on a plate. The eggs are a bit brown, but they’ll live. Tim has absolutely no regrets.</p><p> </p><p>While Tim’s in the shower—after Martin had finally wormed himself free with a chiding <em>we’re going to be late for the train, Tim</em>—Jon and Martin wash the dishes, Jon taking the still-dripping plates from Martin and running the soft red hand towels over them before setting them back in the cupboard. Jon’s always been fond of chores—the repetitiveness of them, a way to quiet his mind and lose himself to something so achingly mundane—and he’s even more fond of the way that Martin loses himself within them as well, his mouth moving almost of his own accord as he chatters about whatever’s on his mind in between the suds and the sponge. Right now, it’s about cows.</p><p> </p><p>“—and they’re the oldest registered cattle in the world, you know,” he’s saying as he hands another plate off to Jon to dry. “And- and instead of herds, a group of Highland cattle is called a <em>fold.</em> Christ, they- they just look so <em>soft,</em> don’t they? With the long, shaggy hair and everything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe you’ll get to pet one,” Jon says offhandedly, and the little gasp Martin gives at that sends through him a rush of affection so strong it nearly steals his breath away.</p><p> </p><p>“D’you think?”</p><p> </p><p>Martin’s eyes are wide and hopeful, and Jon can’t help the laugh that bubbles up within him, sweet like champagne on his tongue and just as dizzying. “I’m sure we can find a way,” he says, before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against Martin’s mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Making plans without me?” Tim says lightly, and when Jon pulls back, he sees him leaning against the wall by the entrance to the kitchen, wavy hair made straight by the damp of the shower and leaving little watermarks against his shoulders where it hits the soft cloth of his shirt. His suitcase is sitting by his feet, a cheery spotted thing with scuffs along the bottom that suggest many trips prior, and that same little rush of excitement that he’d felt when they’d first planned the trip overcomes him once again when he realizes it’s almost time.</p><p> </p><p>“As if that’s even possible,” Martin scoffs lightly, a smile teasing at the corners of his lips. “You’d just complain the whole time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, rude.”</p><p> </p><p>The dishes are all put away, the counters tidied,  and the last-minute forgotten items stuffed hastily into side pockets of suitcases and backpacks. Jon holds his ticket like a lifeline as they step out of the flat and lock the door behind them, and all he can really think in that moment is that he’s never been quite so in love.</p><p> </p><p>And that maybe he might be inclined to wake up earlier on Saturday mornings in the future.</p><p> </p><p>Until, at least, Tim stops mid-step and swears. “Shit, my toothbrush!” At which point Jon is still quite in love. And also quite exasperated.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Tim.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, sorry! Be back in a flash.”</p><p> </p><p>They make it to the train with minutes to spare, which Martin grouses about the entire time they’re stowing their luggage in the overhead bins and settling into their not-quite-comfortable seats.  Still, when the train begins to inch forward, its rocking turning into a gentle, subtle sway as it picks up speed and carries them away from London, his hand finds Jon’s, and Jon’s finds Tim’s in kind, and Martin finds his gaze drawn out the window as the buildings give way to sprawling countryside. He runs a thumb over the back of Jon’s knuckles and lets Tim’s fingers drum gently against the back of his hand.</p><p> </p><p>It really is quite a beautiful morning.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i don't know how trains in the uk work and at this point i'm too afraid to ask</p><p>comments and kudos are greatly appreciated 💛</p><p>find me on tumblr <a href="https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/">@bluejayblueskies</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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